The Adventure of the Famous Fiddler
by Abarero
Summary: When a famous friend of America's mysteriously disappears, England puts his detective skills to the test. Helping America through his grief while unraveling clues, the two must work together to find out what has become of the missing fiddler. US/UK
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I started this awhile back as part of the livejournal help_haiti auctions. This was written for sillyputtie's winning bid. She asked for _A mystery fic. Sherlock Holmesy type (established relationship would be love)_. So that's what this is. It should run a couple of chapters. I'd really appreciate any comments on this and I hope you enjoy!

Also, just a reminder, this is written in England's POV.

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**The Adventure of the Famous Fiddler**: Chapter 1

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It has come to my attention, although a bit delayed in its arrival, that one Alfred F. Jones (better known by some of us as one United States of America. America, for short, of course) has taken a liking to the violin as of late. While not uninclined to musical arts, one might say that the violin is rather a bad choice for him. Or at least, the snobs in Europe might criticize his misuse of the "poor instrument," as America tends to use it rather jauntily instead of by their standard "proper" methods.

This dalliance in informing me, of all people—well, nations even, turned out to be because it was to be some manner of a surprise for me. One of his, albeit endearing, strange romantic endeavors for me, no doubt. And while I am definitely no snobbish European who scoffs at the mere idea of misusing a violin, the idea that something involving a fiddle is America's idea of a romantic surprise for me isn't exactly…well, romantic. Or, at least that is what I believed at the time.

But, I suppose, I am getting ahead of myself. This story truly begins when I first came into the knowledge of not only America's fiddling exploits, but also when I was presented with the mysterious circumstances of a famous fiddler's disappearance. Needless to say, it was only a matter of time before I found myself agreeing to look into the matter. Not that America's flattery of my literature had anything to do with it, mind you. Not at all.

The day began in Washington, DC. I'd flown in for a visit after noticing a rather distraught tinge to America's tone over the phone. He'd tried to assure me that all was well, but it was quite obvious that it wasn't. This fact became even more obvious when my knock got no answer and I had to let myself in with my key to the home. "America?" I called out.

A muffled response came from the direction of his study. "England? I'm in here!"

Setting aside my coat and luggage, I crossed the foyer and wound down the hallway towards the study. America's study was, I will admit, quite the sight to behold. Dusty tomes dotted the shelves, select volumes noticeably receiving more love than others; while the titles he deemed 'too boring' were left for the bookworms to consume. Amidst all this, there were stacks of dog-eared pulp novels and adventure journals towering over the floor like miniature skyscrapers, swaying to and fro as I pushed open the door.

On entering, I found America curled up in his favorite armchair with his copy of _The Amazing Spider-Man #121_ and his eyes glistening with the hint of tears. It was the former of these facts that immediately alerted me to his melancholy state rather than the second. Sometimes I've pondered on how he ever got through a rough patch in his life without suffering right along with Spider-Man and the loss of Gwen Stacy.

It was then that I caught sight of his fiddle, all polished wood and vibrantly hued brown, seated across his knees. Something was afoot and it was my duty, as friend and well…as _boyfriend_, to see to it that America was restored to his usual jovial state as soon as I could manage.  
"England?" He queried, setting aside the comic; his hand instinctively going to rest on his fiddle.

I gave a reassuring smile and crossed the room, dodging the towers of books and boxes of comics that dotted the floor. "Did something happen with a musician?"

He nodded, a sad smile on his lips. "Yeah. You know how I finally caved and told you about my fiddle lessons instead of having you freaking out on thinking I was avoiding you?"

I hung my head and shuffled my feet at that. "Yes. Well, it was just…suspicious and…well, what about it?"

"The famous Robert Chafley was my instructor and…he…" America sighed heavily, and he no longer needed to finish that sentence for me to figure out at least a rough idea of what had occurred.

Successfully completing my navigation of the room, I reached out to him; cradling his head against my chest. I was still a tad chilled from the winter air, but he paid that no mind as he clutched me closer. Threading ice cold fingers through America's hair, I noted how he still held his fiddle close and easily put all the pieces together. "Let's get you something warm to drink- coffee even- and you can tell me what happened, all right?"

Nodding again, he stood; fiddle protectively clutched in his right hand while he held my hand fast with his left.

"All right."

* * *

The situation was as follows: Mr. Robert Chafley was a renowned fiddler, well known and loved by fans worldwide. But, as the matter stood, I feel I should note, he was rather alone in his personal life. No living relatives and too busy with his profession to make any friends, Robert lived his days alone in a tranquil farmhouse by a lake. America, persistent bloke that he is, had become good acquaintances with Chafley in hopes to learn the fiddle himself. He'd been progressing well until two days ago, when no one answered the door when he arrived for a lesson. Robert's car was missing and has since been located in the bottom of the lake. But, as America stressed at many points in his tale, no body has yet been found.

"Clearly something has happened, England! Perhaps he was kidnapped and is being forced to teach his rival the secret behind his talent. Or, some megalomaniac intends to hold him hostage until I hand over super secret government plans. Or…or…"

I reached over and patted America's hand on the table. "I'm not discounting your theory that it isn't what it seems, but…America, can we think a little more logically and a little less comic book?"

He gave me a sheepish smile at that. "Sorry, but…the police have already said they think I was the closest person to him besides his manager. So maybe…"

"We should look into it. I think I might be able to see some things the local police have missed."

At this, America's eyes lit up. "That's right! You've got the best famous detectives in your books. Poirot, Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes! I bet Holmes could solve this."

Confidently, I smiled to myself. "I'm no Sherlock, but…I'll give it a go. You in?"

America took my hand and gave it a squeeze. "Of course! We'll find justice for Mr. Chafley. The awesome team of Kirkland and Jones is on the case!"

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Notes:  
[1] The Amazing Spider-Man #121 - The Night Gwen Stacy Died. The death of Gwen Stacy shocked the American comic book community. Previously, it had been unthinkable to kill off such an important character - the girlfriend of the main character and a character with a large fanbase. This story arc is considered one of the markers of the end of the Silver Age of Comic Books, and the beginning of the darker, grittier Bronze Age.

And I hope people know these, but just in case:  
[2] Sherlock Holmes (by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)  
[3] Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple (both by Dame Agatha Christie)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:** I do hope that people enjoy this second chapter! Please comment if you do.

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Our quest for justice began by eluding police detection, which was rather simple given their preoccupation in investigating the lake, and was followed up by breaking and entering. America had argued that we should work _with_ the police, but I assured him that all great detective work is done without their hindrance. That and, as America quite agreed, it was best if we didn't have to use our FBI and SIS clearance allotted to us as nations if we didn't have to.

And so, that is how we found ourselves prying open the kitchen window of Robert Chafley's home. I had procured a small toolkit for such adventures and with its aid, had managed to pop the latch on the windowsill. Stowing that away in my back pocket, I turned to America.

"All right now, who in first?"

"I'll lift you in first," he offered, reaching over to give my hand a squeeze. "Really England, you have no idea how thankful I am that you've offered to do this for me."

I flushed in embarrassment, but regained my proper composure and cleared my throat. Now was not the time for sentimentalities. "It's the least I can do, America. Right then, let's get in there and see what we can find."

With his excessive strength, America wasted not a moment's time in lifting me up to the windowsill. I clambered in, balancing precariously atop the sink, and reached back out through the window to aid America in. Once I got a good grip on his forearms, it was only a matter of seconds before his entire front half was in my lap where I crouched on the countertop.

"Well, hello there, England," he said with a cheeky grin.

I frowned and pushed up his dislodged glasses. "I see you're already in better spirits."

As I jumped down from the sink to the floor, America pulled himself fully in the window and shut it after himself. Swinging his legs around, he dangled them over the counter's edge. There was a hint of seriousness to his eyes again.

"Look, I'm still worried about Mr. Chafley. _Really_ worried, you know? But…" He puffed up his cheeks and huffed out a breath. "I'm just certain that whatever the outcome, we'll do our damnedest to bring him justice. And that's the best I can hope for."

Giving the room a quick glance around (and making note of the placement of the table, the stove, the refrigerator and the doorway), I listened hard to see if anyone was inside the home. On not hearing a single noise outside the ticking of a distant clock, I nodded to myself. America deserved this much, to bolster his sinking mood, for it just wasn't like his smile to not quite quirk up all the way and for his eyes not to sparkle with that unashamed hope for the future. As ridiculous as it might sound, I knew him far too well not to notice that he was a bit off.

"Come here you," I mumbled, closing the space between us and wrapping my arms snugly around his back. He started at the contact, but quickly eased into my hold, leaning down from his perch in the sink, his swinging legs coming to a standstill.

"England?"

"It's all right to worry," I elucidated, rubbing circles over the tense muscles of his back. "You don't have to fake being cheerful, and you don't have to act like everything's going to be okay. Someone you care about is missing and there's not a single answer as to why. I can't promise you that we'll find the answer you want, but…" I pulled back and met his wide blue eyes with my own. "I will find the answers, America. We won't leave until we have an answer, good or bad."

His tenative smile softened at that, and I wasn't too surprised to find myself being tugged forward into a grateful kiss. As he pulled back, his eyes darted to the floor and he mumbled, "Thanks. That's…that's good to know."

I trailed my hand down his arm and gave his hand a squeeze. "Are you going to be up to this or should I let you gather your thoughts?"

Pausing a moment, America frowned as he considered the options. With a determined sigh, he jumped down from the sink and squeezed my hand back. "I'll help you find those answers, England. Good or bad, I…I want to know."

We twined our fingers together, sharing a look and an understanding smile between us, before we ventured forth from the kitchen into the hallway. I didn't know what to expect or where to begin to look for clues, but one thing was quite certain either way- we were in this together, whatever the outcome might be. And simply put, that was the best place to start.

We made a general sweep of the house, ensuring that we were indeed alone and looking for anything that seemed out of place. That's when America pinpointed our first, and perhaps best, clue. Robert Chafley's favorite fiddle was nowhere in the house to be found. Certainly, there were plenty of other fiddles, hence why the police probably didn't take notice; but America emphasized to me how Mr. Chafley always favored this specific fiddle and that it was, coincidentally, the one missing.

"You should have seen it. It was _gorgeous_. Hand-carved, ebony chinrest and pegs, spruce top, flamed maple body. And that's not even talking about the sound of it. Just...it was so _awesome_, England. If it's missing, something is definitely up."

I pondered this fact over, frowning to myself in thought. "It's not his most valuable one, is it?"

America shook his head in the negative. "Nope, that's this one or well, that one too." He remarked, pointing out two of the fiddles in the room. "Mr. Chafley's favorite was a gift from his parents, one of a kind, so it's more...sentimental value."

Not wanting to give America false hope, I tucked away the answers that this had given me. America noted my expression though, and I knew I had to provide him with some sort of answer at the moment. I chose to state the more obvious one. "I doubt it was stolen for money then, so we can put that conclusion aside."

"Yeah..." He mumbled, setting down the fiddle he held. "I really hope he isn't being held hostage by a super villain..."

I didn't have the heart to mock his silly comic-inspired theory, he was just too upset. So instead, I placed a reassuring hand on his arm and caught his eye. "Well, if he is, he's lucky then." He looked shocked, but I pressed on. "Because he's got such a great hero as a student of his that would surely save him, right?"

America beamed at that. "Yeah! That's right!" His arms wrapped around me in a quick hug as he proudly exclaimed. "If he needs a hero, I'm just the person for the job."

Chuckling, I let my eyes drift elsewhere in the room. "All right then, hero. Let's see what else we can find that the police haven't noticed."

And with an added bounce back in his step, America led the way down the hallway to the next room.

Our investigation began in the bedroom, where I closely observed any and all idiosyncrasies with the surroundings in order to gather some knowledge to further support or negate my current hunch. The first thing that caught my eye was the rather large closet, with its doors open wide and several bare hangers dangling inside amidst other clothing. Truthfully, it could have been the police who had left it open, but that wasn't what drew my attention the most.

"America, would you say Mr. Chafley is an overly organized person or a bit haphazard?" I queried, drawing nearer to the empty hangers and seeing what I could make of them.

America came up behind me. "Well, I'd say he's kind of a neat freak. Not like he dusts obsessively or something, but he always insisted on me using a coaster when I had a drink or putting certain books and things right back where he pulled them out from."

"What do you make of this then?" I asked gesturing to the hangers. "A bit strange that he doesn't have all the empty hangers gathered at one end?"

Pressing against my back to peer into the closet, America pointed out something else I'd already noticed. "Yeah, I'd say so. Considering it looks like he keeps his hangers grouped by type- I bet he'd be that nitpicky. Come to think of it, England, I bet you two would get along."

I shoved feebly at the hand that rested now on my shoulder. "Hush, you."

But it was true. The hangers allotted for slacks were all kept to the right, while shirt hangers with notches and those without were grouped separately towards the left. A collection of empty hangers, assumedly from dirty clothing yet to be washed, was gathered on the far left.

This made the six empty hangers left scattered throughout seem definitely out of place, and also, supported my current theory about what had become of Robert Chafley. America was frowning at the hangers, obviously trying to gather the same knowledge from them that I had.

"So maybe he grabbed some clothing because he was leaving, or was being forced to leave, in a hurry?"

I turned to face him and a smile tugged at my lips. "Quite. But that definitely means that…"

The sound of a door creaking open hushed my words immediately, and I hastily exchanged an urgent look with America. He'd heard it too, and we both glanced around for a way to quickly remove ourselves from sight.

_In here?_ America mouthed, indicating the closet we were inspecting.

_No. It's too obvious._ I mouthed back, snatching America's wrist in my hand. I could hear footsteps now in the hallway and it was only going to be a matter of moments before whoever this was found us standing here gadding about.

_Think, England. Think. Where would they be least likely to look in this room that can fit two able bodied men?_

That's when I spotted the bed frame, the underside of the bed being hidden by a ruffle around the bottom. Without a moment to lose, I pulled America with me towards the bed and I knelt to feel beneath it. Thankfully, it wasn't solid; and even luckier in our favor, it seemed to be completely devoid of any sort of storage under it as well.

"Come on," I hissed under my breath. America nodded and scrambled under the bed with me, both of us stifling coughs from the clouds of dust we stirred up.

It seemed, as America had noted, that Mr. Chafley might be organized, but he wasn't so nitpicky that the underside of his bed was cleaned often. In fact, I would chance a guess that he'd not cleaned it in several years, for it was downright filthy, coated in dust bunnies and cobwebs, all of which was making it rather difficult for us to repress our coughing and sneezing.

Clutching America close to my side so he could stifle a cough against my chest, I heard the muffled voices drawing closer. As quietly as I could manage, I whispered in his ear.

"Well now, we've gotten ourselves in quite the predicament, haven't we?"

And through the blue fabric-hued lighting that permeated the dusty alcove, I saw him quirk a smile that was nearer to being his usual smile than before. Perhaps the clue in the hangers had given him the same hope as it had me?

Quietly, so quietly I almost mistook it for a gush of wind outside, America whispered back.

"If I have to get into trouble with someone, I wouldn't want it to be with anyone else but you, England."

He gripped my hand then, and I gave it a squeeze; both of us holding our breaths as the footsteps entered the bedroom and came to a pause right above the bed.

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TO BE CONTINUED...


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: Thank you for the comments! I'm glad at least a few people are enjoying this.

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We stayed as still as two living beings might, breaths held for fear that even the slightest of noises could draw unwanted attention to our impromptu hiding place. As the footsteps drew closer, I felt America give my hand another squeeze. He was quite right, I have to admit, that if I had the choice to be in this predicament with anyone, he would be the only person I would wish to do so with. Something about him, perhaps his damnable hope and optimism, always made me feel like for once in my life, things just might go right.

"See, I told you. Nothing up here," one of the two voices remarked as the footsteps entered the room.

"Hmm. Must've been the curtains. I know I saw something move."

Chancing a glance out through the bed ruffle, I noted two sets of identical shoes. This, I reasoned, meant police. No criminal or ruffian would have uniform-issued boots the same as his companion, unless under very bizarre circumstances. Although still not about to let my guard down, it put me at a bit of ease as the two men circled the bed.

"Look, the lake isn't going to drag itself for a body. We'd better get back out there before the chief comes up asking us why we're taking so long inside."

He was answered with a grunt, and for a moment I thought we were scot-free. That is, until the tip of one of those uniformed boots stuck through the bed ruffle and came mere centimeters within reach of my nose. I could feel America's arm tense up as he gripped my hand tighter than ever.

"Hey, were the pillows like that earlier?"

I heard the other officer huff in exasperation, "I don't know. Why does it matter? Chief already said they've ruled out foul play. It's clearly a suicide; there's been no sign of forced entry or struggle."

At that, I didn't even need to feel the slack in America's grip to know that those few words, 'clearly a suicide' would cut through him like a knife. Whether he was overcome with outrage that his mentor would never do such a thing or struck by grief that if it was the case, clearly he- as the hero- should have noticed and saved him, I knew one thing was for certain: America was about to say something that would give us away.

I turned as quick and silent as I could manage, hoping to mask the shuffles of my movement under the retreating officers' footsteps. Pressing two fingers to his lips, I caught his gaze and my heart sunk. It had been the latter of the two reactions, that much was certain, as America looked downright stricken rather than indignant.

Holding his gaze, I mouthed to him, _It's all right. I promise, America. It'll all be all right._

He nodded mutely, but that edge of panic had yet to leave his eyes. I took a deep breath, about to risk whispering to him in consolation; but before a single word could leave my mouth, my eyes caught sight of something on the ground behind America.

Something that not only aided my current theory about the whereabouts of Robert Chafley, but practically confirmed them.

Gesturing as best as I could in the confined space, I pulled America against me; rubbing circles across his tense back muscles in hopes that without words I could ease him out of his concerns. We stayed like that for quite some time, the distant sounds of the two officers opening and closing the doors to each room as they gave the house a look through the only sound aside from our slight huffs of breath and the beating of our two hearts.

"England, I…"

The voice was so small and quiet that I almost didn't hear it over the slamming of the front door as the two officers finally left. Deciding that it was worth the risk, I started to crawl out from under the bed, my loose grip on America's forearm drawing him out with me.

"America," I said, firmly yet gently. I sat on my knees, covered in dust and cobwebs and who knew what else; but the matter of the grime was miles away as I saw the wide blue eyes and knew what heartbreak would lie in the words he was about to speak.

"If Mr. Chafley, if he…I could have…I should have…"

I closed the space between us, gathering up his slumped figure from where he sat dazed on the floor into my arms. "Hush," I said, smoothing down his ruffled hair and trying to sweep the dust from it. "Do you trust me, America?"

He blinked up at me, and with a spark of his usual self, he gave me a little smile. "Of course, England."

"Then, trust me on this. I am of the firm belief that your friend left his home alive. No one packs a suitcase so discreetly the police don't notice if they're just going to drive themselves into a lake, right?"

America's mouth gaped open, obviously piecing together the same things I had to come to this conclusion. "Then the hangers and the fiddle…"

"And there was an imprint in the dust under the bed where something large and rectangle had once been."

"A suitcase he packed then!" America said triumphantly. "England, you're a genius!"

Before I could note that I was just noting the facts, he'd leaned forward to kiss me quite soundly on the lips. We both pulled back spitting and spluttering, each of us getting quite a taste of dust thanks to our adventure under the bed.

"Ugh, I think we need to clean up before we check one thing out."

"What's that?" I asked, wondering what clue he'd struck upon that I had yet to think of.

"If he packed a suitcase, clothes and his best fiddle- then he'd need a way to transport the fiddle too."

Standing up, I extended a hand down to help him up as well. "Looks like you're onto something there, Mr. Jones."

America leaned forward, puckered up, and air kissed me a few centimeters away. "Learned from the best, Mr. Kirkland."

He turned at that, extending the crook of his arm to me. "Shall we go de-dust ourselves first?"

"Quite," I replied, linking my arm through his as we made our way off towards the restroom.

As America had surmised, there was exactly one fiddle case missing from the music room. We'd searched it up and down, and found that much like the fiddles themselves- while there were over eight various cases present, America swore up and down that one of the cases, in fact the very one Mr. Chafley preferred using even, was the singular case not present.

"Does this mean that he's safe, England?" America asked hopefully, his outfit still retaining a bit of dusty residue.

While I hated to give out false promises, all my gut instincts were pointing towards one definitive fact. This I could give to America as a thread of hope.

Clutching his hand and giving him a nod, I reiterated what I'd told him earlier, "As I said, I believe he left here alive. The question that now remains is _where_ is he?"

America, who had absently picked up one of the remaining fiddles, slunk into a nearby chair. I was about to inquire what he was doing, but there was a look of utmost concentration on his face as he slowly played a melody.

"Very Sherlock Holmes, you know," I quipped, unable to resist.

"Huh?"

Chuckling, I waved my hand for him to continue. "Go on; play if it'll help you focus. That's what Holmes did."

Blue eyes blinked, letting my words sink in, before a tenative smile quirked at his lips. "Okay, but I'm not playing your surprise yet. That's…that's special."

Walking over to him, I swept his ruffled bangs out of his eyes, my hand sliding down the side of his face to rest on his cheek. "I'll wait for it then."

"Awesome."

He took up the bow at that and started up a bluegrass melody, his face one again clouding over with extreme determination. I took a few steps back, and although this wasn't the promised surprise involving his fiddlework, I found myself entranced by him playing. Long fingers deftly holding the bow, directing it smoothly across the strings as his other hand swiftly moved to aid the melody along. The tune started out a bit slow, but as his brows creased in concentration, the tempo of the song picked up. Just as he started to hit a quicker pace, he came to an abrupt stop, sitting bolt upright in the chair and staring at me with his mouth agape.

"England, I know how we can find out where Mr. Chafley is."

I blinked. "Really? Is that what you were thinking on?"

He set down the fiddle back in the case it had originated from and carefully tucked it back away. As he knelt to do so, he spoke, "Yeah. I was trying to remember where I'd seen something. See, I noticed Mr. Chafley never had a schedule book or any sort of calendar to mark when I had lessons, but I remembered him writing down the change of time one week on this small notepad. If we're lucky, he did the same with some clue about where he went and left it the same place I saw it- on the corner of his desk."

Wiggling his fingers in my direction, he gave me a hopeful smile. "So, wanna go find out if I'm right?"

I clasped his hand and wished with all my might that his theory held water, for the last thing he needed was to feel like this little stroke of luck was a waste. "Right then, let's see to it."

As we wove down the hallway towards the doorway to his office, I cleared my throat and made a hasty mumble of my thoughts before I could retract them.

"I know it wasn't the surprise you had in mind, but, well, you're quite good."

America came to a stop at that, all wide eyes and that hint of smile he always got before he asked... "You really think so, England?"

I flushed and nodded. "Quite. Wouldn't have said so otherwise, now would I?" His grin grew wider and despite my inherent desire to cheer him up at all costs, I really didn't want to get into another discussion on America's awesomeness. Post-haste, I changed the subject just slightly. "What was it called?"

At that, America ducked his head and gave me a sheepish glance. "Um. It's called _Liberty_."

I shoved him in the arm at that and gave a snort of derision. "I shouldn't be surprised."

"You asked!"

With a huff, I rolled my eyes and relented. "Well, I suppose it's a decent enough tune for such an _American_ title."

Catching the hint of my smile, America swung his arm around my shoulders and rested his head down against mine. "You know you love it."

"I see you're getting back to yourself," I remarked as we swung into the office, America practically dragging me with him as he rushed over to the desk.

"That's because we have this!" He said triumphantly holding up the notepad.

I blinked, hating to break this to him. "America, the notepad, it's…blank."

But for the first time since we arrived, America's detecting skills had the optimism to see beyond mine. Running his fingers over the notepad, he smirked.

"Yeah, for now it is. But if he left any pen impressions on this, we can easily find out." He turned back to the desk at that, scrounging around for a pencil. Finding one with an 'aha!' he started rubbing the lead of the pencil across the front of the page. Sure enough, the white outlines of words that had pressed through the page began to appear.

"America, is that…"

He grabbed me around the waist and tugged me close, practically brimming with hope.

"It says right here, Mr. Chafley has to be in…"

Before he could say it, a person with a deep voice cleared their throat right behind us. Jerking around, we both stood face to face with a tall man, who was clearly not there as part of the police detection.

"Who the hell are you?" He asked, glaring at both of us.

I was about to step forward and explain the circumstances that had brought us here when America, with a flash of shock and determination in his eyes, stepped in front of me, holding his arm out to keep me back.

With steel in his voice, he leveled the man a look. "That's what I should be asking you, _Sir_."

* * *

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

Notes: Thank you for the kind reviews! It really brightens my day to get reviews on this story. The next chapter will be the final chapter.

* * *

"It says right here, Mr. Chafley has to be in…"

Before he could say it, a person with a deep voice cleared their throat right behind us. Jerking around, we both stood face to face with a tall man, who was clearly not there as part of the police detection.

"Who the hell are you?" He asked, glaring at both of us.

I was about to step forward and explain the circumstances that had brought us here when America, with a flash of shock and determination in his eyes, stepped in front of me, holding his arm out to keep me back.

With steel in his voice, he leveled the man a look. "That's what I should be asking you, _Sir_."

The man before us was of average height, with brown hair that was graying near the temples and a sturdy jaw line. His dress was of a manner that made it quite clear that he was no random passing ruffian, but someone with importance.

With a fierce look in his eye, he snorted, "Who am I? _I'm_ Robert Chafley."

America shot a look at me over his shoulder at that, and I immediately realized why he was on the defense. If this really was the Robert Chafley we were seeking, he would know who America was.

"Bullshit," America hissed, taking another step towards the man.

"Excuse me? You are in _my_ house. I should call the police I just sent off back right away and have them arrest you."

I didn't know what America knew that I didn't; but I trusted that he had a very valid reason for going on the attack against this man instead of just asking him outright why he didn't recognize him. As if to indicate my support, I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as he continued to face off against this supposed Robert Chafley.

"Well they can take you as well then. Because unless you've gotten amnesia and a major personality change, you aren't the Mr. Chafley I knew. In fact, you don't even know my name, do you?"

Certainly enough, I could see the shocked look on the man's face; America had hit the nail on the head, this man wasn't who he appeared to be.

America crossed his arms, his confidence back full-force. "That's what I thought. Which means one of three things: Either you body snatched Mr. Chafley; something I doubt because Tony has told me the symptoms of that and you aren't matching up. You're a clone. Or…"

He stepped forward and leveled the man a hard stare, eye to eye.

"What if, the Robert Chafley as I knew him wasn't the only fiddler in his family? If in fact, he had a twin brother who faked his death so that they could both be famous fiddlers and still have plenty of vacation time. And now, you've decided to retire and Robert isn't happy about that. Now it was his turn to fake his death, so he could carry on without you."

Although it was a very serious accusation, I could see the disbelief in the false Robert's eyes at this. Seeking to try and get to the bottom of this _with_ his cooperation, I spoke up, "Um, no offense, but that's a little sci-fi/comic book in theory there, Alfred."

"Actually," the man began; his voice a less booming timbre now, "he's exactly right."

It was my turn to be thunderstruck, but before I could voice a word, he continued, "For my brother, fiddling is everything in the world to him. I loved it too, for a time, but well…" The gentleman rubbed a hand against his graying temple. "It's been so long, and living a shared life with my brother hasn't exactly been easy. We got in a fight when I told him I wanted to retire, lost my favorite car over it."

America blinked. "So then, the car in the lake…"

"He was trying to drive away when we were fighting, said he had a performance to get to. In the following argument, he stepped out of the car to confront me. The parking brake wasn't on and it was already on an incline so…"

"It just rolled right into the lake," I found myself saying. Suddenly, a lot of the clues I was as of yet unable to figure into my theory were beginning to fit.

"Just had enough time to grab his best fiddle out of the seat," the man clarified.

It was obvious that this implication that his friend and mentor was recently seen alive significantly brightened America's mood. But despite how all the pieces were falling into place, there was but one question left to me. "If you'll pardon my asking, but who are you really and where is the Robert my friend knew?"

He snorted. "I _am_ the real Robert Chafley. After our parents died, we moved here to the United States. That's when my brother adopted his stage name. When we both decided to masquerade as Robert, there was no way to trace him back to his real name. Alexander Chafley ceased to be from that point onward."

"Then Alexander, the Mr. Chafley I knew..." America looked hopeful.

It was as if, at that moment, something clicked within Robert's mind; as if the shock of finding us here was now connecting with something else inside his thoughts. His eyes widened and he looked, _really looked_, at America.

"You must be his student, Alfred," he stated, as if he knew not to question it because it was so blatantly obvious to him now that he'd made the connection. "Alex told me you might drop by. Said you had a habit of inviting yourself over for lessons. I'm terribly sorry though, my brother, he's...gone."

"Gone?" America echoed, torn between confusion and grief.

"I don't know what happened. After we had our disagreement, he ran inside and hastily filled a suitcase and just...walked off. That's why I've been missing myself for the last few days. I'd rented a car and gone looking for him."

I saw America take a deep breath, clearly trying to gather the nerve to ask about the one last clue we held. Everything else had come into play- the missing fiddle, its case, the car in the lake, and now the hastily grabbed clothing and suitcase. Clasping America's hand, I spoke up from beside him.

"Mr. Chafley, have you perchance looked in Branson, Missouri?"

He blinked. "Should I have?"

Beside me, America sighed in relief. Our last hope still remained for now.

With a nod, I held up the paper we'd found, "It seems your brother had, well for lack of a better way to put it, planned his destination. Or at least, we're hoping that's what this means."

"Branson, well...he had _joked_ about that at one point earlier in our career. Said we could always play Branson when we got old and washed up."

I swallowed hard and held out the paper to him. It felt right, seeing as the brothers had parted on ill terms, that I gave him this chance to reconcile first. "Perhaps you should try this number then? It's the only recourse we have."

After a slight moment's hesitation, he took the slip of paper from me. If the fact it was an imprint of writing surprised him, the rest of the matter too overwhelmed him for the shock to show on his face. With a single nod, he cleared his throat and stepped past us to the phone on the desk corner, which he flipped on to speakerphone so the conversation could be heard by all in the room. As he dialed, I felt America's hand slip into mine. This was the moment of truth, the final clue and our last hope. I gave his hand a squeeze, and glanced over to see his strained look as he waited with bated breath for our answers.

"Hotel Grand Victorian, Branson, Missouri- how may I help you?" I could hear the cheerful receptionist's voice say over the line. Robert held his breath a moment before asking.

"I was calling to see if you had an Alexander Chafley as a guest."

"One moment please."

The next few seconds felt like hours to me, and I can only surmise how horrid a wait it was for Robert and America, being as they personally knew the missing man. After what seemed like forever, the pleasant voice on the other end of the line said the one thing we dreaded most.

"I can't find anyone by that name on our list."

My eyes went immediately to America, because I'd felt his body physically go slack as the words echoed in the small office. And while I could not hear a single sound from him, it seemed like he was mouthing the word 'no' over and over, as if the magnitude of the situation had left him mute.

I had reached up an arm behind him, pulling him against my side, and was about to say some comforting words to express hope that I no longer felt. But all those sentiments died on my lips as Robert's trembling voice asked one more question.

"Can you check under another name? What about Fletcher O'Bray?"

* * *

to be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** So...after saying it would be five chapters, the last part got to be longer than expected. SO. Now it's looking to be 6 parts, even if the 6th chapter is more like an epilogue.

* * *

"Can you check under another name? What about Fletcher O'Bray?"

Both mine and America's heads snapped up at this query; and even exchanging a questioning look with him seemed to bring no recognition on his part of this name. It was then that I realized that this must have been the stage name Robert had mentioned Alexander taking on when they first moved to America, being as that was the only logical recourse.

This expanse of time waiting seemed to trudge by even slower than the first. Our last shot, before we were left without any more clues and no idea where to look next. When the receptionist let out a little 'Ah', America and I both edged closer.

"Yes, we do have a Mr. Fletcher O'Bray staying in one of our suites. Would you like me to patch you through to his room?"

"Yes, thank you," Robert managed after a moment. He turned then and gave us the first smile I'd yet seen grace his face.

"Hello?"

All I needed to see was America's vibrant smile surfacing on his face, like sunlight after a storm, to know that this voice was none other than Alexander Chafley's. A quick glimpse at Robert only confirmed this.

"You know, brother, I really don't think you're quite washed up enough for Branson," he teased.

"R-Robert?" Alexander asked, "How did you…"

"You never told me your fiddling student Alfred also meddled in detective work. He and his partner helped me track you down."

At this, Alexander laughed, warm and bright and full of the vigor that America had long praised him for. "Alfred's an intelligent boy, one of the faster learners I've ever seen. Knowing him, he went knocking round some famous detective's door until they caved in and offered to mentor him. That's how I ended up meeting him after all."

"No, I didn't need to do that, Mr. Chafley," America spoke up, unable to keep quiet anymore. He was positively radiating happiness.

"Alfred…"

"Luckily Arthur's got a few detective skills up his sleeves."

Alexander chuckled, "Ah, your dear Arthur. I would have loved to have met him after how well you spoke of him."

I flushed at this, and turned to see America quite as red in the face as I believe I might have been.

"I must say, Sir, that I can hardly do but say the same of you," I interjected. "Being as I've heard nothing but good things about you from Alfred."

"I see everyone's having a party at the house after I've left," he joked. "But I suppose it serves me right. Robert, I was quite rude with you and my temper got the best of me. I was afraid, brother, that if you knew where I was headed you'd try and stop me."

Robert snorted, "Like I could ever stop you from doing whatever you wanted, Alex. I'm just glad you're safe and…hopefully happy?"

"Very happy," the smile was evident in his voice. "I'll be working a gig here on the main strip. The Famous Fiddling of Fletcher O'Bray has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"It suits you well," Robert said with a shake of his head. "You always preferred the flashier route than I."

Alexander laughed again at that, before pausing abruptly. "Yes well, I _am_ sorry Robert. I do hope you can forgive me."

"I expect backstage passes to your show, then perhaps…" Robert teased back, and although I didn't know either of them well, you could simply feel that things between the brothers had been set right.

"Ah, that's just the thing then! Since I had to abandon poor Alfred, perhaps I could invite you all down here as my guests? I would love to know at least three people will applaud me on opening night."

"That would be awesome!" America called out.

"It would be my proper apology to you both. Perhaps Robert, you'll even forgive my new look."

Robert frowned at this, and I had a feeling that he would at least taunt his brother about whatever this 'new look' was. "Don't get your hopes too up, Alex."

He laughed again. "I must, even as my guests, ask one favor of you two though."

"What?"

"Okay!"

Alexander cleared his throat, "Just, please bring your fiddles along with you and have them ready to play."

They both looked a bit surprised by the request, but neither refused it. It was then that the kind voice over the phone directed itself at me.

"Arthur, I hope you won't mind an old man's whim, but I think it only right that you're allowed to see the piece Alfred's been working on in a proper setting. I can promise to have a good _English_ tea served for you. My brother and I were born in Great Britain after all, so we do appreciate our afternoon tea."

I chuckled, "Thank you. I would very much appreciate a nice tea and the chance to see this secret project Alfred's been keeping from me for awhile now. I trust you think he'll live up to expectations?"

America's eyes widened at this, clearly waiting for his mentor to say what he thought of his talent.

"He'll blow all expectations right out of the water. Let it be said that Alfred Jones can play a mean fiddle when he puts his mind to it."

At that, America looked downright giddy; a strange mixture of pride and embarrassment over the flattery he'd just received. Reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, he cocked his head in my direction and quirked a smile.

I smiled back, reaching back over and giving America's hand a squeeze. "I'll look forward to that then."

* * *

After making the final arrangements with Alexander Chafley, who insisted that we must now call him Fletcher O'Bray, we caught our flight to Branson. And as for America, his happiness at _hearing_ his mentor alive was nothing in comparison to _seeing_ him alive and well. It seems almost silly to note, but America's smile was back to its usual brilliance, all hope and optimism and joy like it should be.

Robert wasn't too keen on his brother's new look, which included a younger 'hip' haircut and dyed strawberry blonde hair. He'd also acquired a pair of glasses, which he assured us all were purely cosmetic.

"If it works for Superman to hide his true identity, I'm certain it'll work for me," he'd joked. America thoroughly agreed, while Robert and I shook our heads. It was obvious to see why America and Alexander had gotten along so well, as he was definitely the quirkier of the two brothers.

But as for why he'd asked the two of them to bring their fiddles along, that was to be another matter entirely...

"Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, as a special treat today for my opening performance I would like to bring to the stage two of my dearest friends and fellow fiddlers. First off, a name I'm certain you have heard off before. One of the best fiddlers this world has ever heard, I give you: Robert Chafley!"

From backstage, I could see Robert taking the stage to a standing ovation. It was clear now, even with Alexander's changed hair and looks, that the two were twins at their core. Thankfully, I don't think anyone would have noticed had they not been looking for it, but as I watched them start up a good-spirited fiddling duel that had the audience cheering and clapping along, it was clear that these two men not only cared deeply about their music but about their brother as well.

Because even though there were many times one could have easily outplayed the other, they both held steady, neither one wanting to upstage the other at any point during the song. It was impressive to see two men so in tune with each other that even the strokes of their bows across the strings hit in tandem. They were twins in all they did, had lived a shared life under one name, and now under the brilliant stage lights, they were putting on an amazing spectacle of fiddling talent. I found myself quite honored to be there, even if the real performer I was aching to see had yet to set foot onstage.

We had found the answer to the mystery and helped reunite two brothers in the process. My foray into detective work being a genuine success, along with America's quick thinking and help. But honestly, I needed no payment outside the gift I received next. For America's surprise, despite my original confusion at how a fiddle playing could be a romantic gift, was simply priceless in value.

* * *

to be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

Notes: I want to thank the few commenters I've had here on this site for commenting! I haven't received much on this site for this story, so I'm glad to at least know a few people out there seem to like it okay. I hope you enjoy this last and final chapter!

* * *

As the brothers finished to boisterous applause, my eyes caught sight of the person I was there to see standing in the backstage wings across the way. This was the promised surprise, the reason America had taken up fiddling in the first place; my heart sped up a little more at the thought.

America was clearly no longer wearing the suit he'd arrived in; his trek to the dressing rooms earlier with Fletcher having resulted in something a little flashier for the stage. At the moment, I couldn't say I disapproved of the look.

I could see America giving me a nervous smile and a tiny wave with the two fingers not clutching his bow and I waved back, allowing myself a bit more of a smile in hopes he could see it across the brightly lit stage.

"And now, a fiddler you've not yet heard of, but who is still extremely talented for his age- I give you, Alfred Jones!"

If I thought America's outfit was befitting before now, seeing it under the lights simply took my breath away. It was a smart, royal blue suit; but old fashioned in its make so it had coat tails and a red vest, along with a puff tie.

As America took center stage, he turned slightly to his left. The audience, I'm certain, merely assumed he was looking over at where Fletcher O'Bray stood beside him. But the fact of the matter is, he had locked eyes with me. I knew then that this song was being played for me and me alone, the rest of the listeners be damned.

As Fletcher started up the back melody, America counted down the beats before lifting his bow up and jumping right in, his polished shoes tapping the stage floor in rhythm and his piercing blue eyes never once leaving my gaze.

Without a word from his lips, I knew he was saying to me, "England, this is for you."

There are perhaps words to describe what I witnessed that night, but at that moment in time, I was positively speechless.

First and foremost, I was struck by the melody America was playing; an old English reel that I'd not heard for many, many years. I wondered for a moment what had inspired America to choose this song, when I suddenly remembered my penchant for humming it while cooking. Leave it to this git to do something as idiotically romantic as learning to play a song I've hummed now and again.

As if that wasn't enough to woo me, the blasted idiot, was damned good at what he was playing as well. If the glimpse I'd seen of his talent when he'd played the fiddle at the Chafley's house was amazing, this was tenfold so. Movements so fluid, so quick, that his fingers were all but a blur to me. Never once did the jaunty tempo slip, and at times, it almost seemed like he was slightly speeding it up just to show off a little.

That's when he shot me a wink, and I knew that he was indeed showing off and I was the intended target of such buffoonery. So what if my heart skipped a beat or some such frivolous nonsense at his behavior?

As the song began to draw to a close, America grinned wide and bright at the audience. With a quick glance at Fletcher, America sped up the last strands of the song up into a furious tempo, the audience rising to their feet in an ovation as he hit the last chord with a flourish.

America beamed, bowing to the audience before the curtain fell on the first act of Fletcher's show. It was then, that America turned his sights to the two people he most wanted to see the reaction from.

"Mr. Chafley, how did I…" America asked, voice seeming small after such a loud and lively performance.

"You were brilliant, Alfred. The best student I've ever mentored, wouldn't you say Robert?" Fletcher asked as the two walked off stage to the wing we waited in.

"Absolute best."

America pouted. "Hey now, I'm the _only_ student you've mentored."

Fletcher put an arm around his shoulders at that and smiled. "I'm certain I would think the same even if I'd mentored thousands. You're something special, Alfred. Arthur's lucky to have you."

At the mention of my public name, America turned his sights to me. With a few shuffled steps in my direction, he bit his lip as he queried, "So, did you like it?"

I closed the space between us, drawing him into a searing kiss- backstage spectators be damned. It was really, honestly, the only way I felt I could convey anything at that moment; to tell him how touched I was and how magnificently he'd played.

As we parted, I leveled him with a look. "Idiot. How could I not? You learned the song I bloody _hum_ while cooking, on _the fiddle_, just…j-just for me?"

He gave me a dopey smile. "Y-Yeah."

Still unable to find words to express my utter disbelief at his romantic endeavors, I kissed him again for good measure.

Fletcher or Robert, I couldn't tell without seeing, muttered a quiet, "I'm going to guess he liked it." But at that moment, I was a little too preoccupied to care about it or the fiddle prodding me in the side from where America still held it.

Blushing thoroughly, we parted and I cleared my throat. "So um, I suppose yes, if pressed, I did rather…love it."

Fletcher and Robert chuckled, while America just beamed and pulled me into a fierce hug.

"Really? You did? That's so awesome!"

"Yes, really. Now, can you get your fiddle out of my side?"

He withdrew from the embrace with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, just…you really loved it?"

I reached over and took his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. "Quite so."

"Good," he replied with a squeeze back.

A stage hand approached then with two cups, the aroma quite enough for me to already surmise their contents. Certainly enough, he turned to Fletcher and said, "Mr. O'Bray, the tea you requested, sir."

Fletecher took the two tea cups and thanked the young man before sending him on his way. Turning to me, he held one out with a smile. "As promised Arthur, my part of the bargain."

If the aroma hadn't tipped me off already, the color of the tea in the cup definitely assured me that my prediction was correct. With a smile, I nodded my thanks and took the cup from him. I blew a tendril of steam away and delicately took a sip. As expected. "Ah, Borengajuli?"

He nodded, "Best blend out there. Figured you could enjoy it before you joined the audience for our second act."

America grinned, swinging an arm around my shoulders; I frowned as a droplet of tea was jostled out of the cup, which had been on the way to my mouth. "He got us front row seats, of course."

For the tea and the gesture both, I replied, "Many thanks, Mr. O'Bray."

He smiled. "It's the least I can do."

"Mr…" He hesitated, the new name still so foreign to his tongue. "Mr. O'Bray?" America asked. He had removed his arm from around me and was nervously crossing over to his friend.

"Yes Alfred?"

America wrapped the man in a grateful hug, saying quite ardently, "Thank you, for _everything_."

The fiddler patted America on the back. "You're welcome, dear friend."

* * *

We watched the rest of the performance from the center of the front row, America's hand snugly clasping mine when he wasn't clapping along with the melodies Fletcher played. It was a brilliant show. After the performance, we exchanged pleasantries with the two brothers, both of them thanking us for helping reunite them. And, as Robert put it, "We'll even excuse you breaking into our house as thanks."

As we parted, I pulled Robert aside to inform him of one more little clue I'd just picked up on. "You do realize your brother is still playing in your name, right?"

He frowned. "I don't follow."

I held out the show's programme to him, indicating where I'd drawn out the following on the lettering there. "See, if you rearrange the letters of 'Fletcher O'Bray' it spells out…"

"My…my name. Robert Chafley," he finished in shock.

We both turned then to where America and Fletcher were saying their goodbyes.

"I understand what it's like to have a difference of views with someone you care about. But…sometimes you need to know when to apologize, even if it's hard."

Robert snorted. "You're a wise man, Arthur."

I gave a wry smile. "Perhaps I am, now."

* * *

Fletcher had _insisted_ on putting us up in his hotel; best suite he could afford at that. America had tried in vain to argue that it wasn't necessary, but he persisted; it was another 'thank you' to use for all we'd done. As for Robert- America told me he overheard him telling his brother that Fletcher O'Bray was welcome to call on him at any time for a special performance at his show. I smiled, glad to hear that they'd fully made their amends.

America too, had been invited by both brothers to seek them out if he wanted to continue his lessons, and this earned them both a big grin and hugs all around. It seemed that in learning the instrument for the sake of one surprise, America had grown rather fond of it and did indeed wish to learn more from both of them.

All in all, we'd parted on fond terms with well-wishes and promises to see one another the next time America wanted a lesson or the next time I wished for a good cup of tea and a front row seat to America's performance.

The case was, as they say, officially closed.

"Hey England?" America murmured, coming into our room and standing beside our bed.

I put aside the pen and paper I'd been writing notes out on. Somewhere along the line, I'd thought it might be interesting to jot down the more extraordinary points of this case. That was, after all, what Watson had done for Holmes; and while I was definitely no Sherlock, I wouldn't mind having a record of this strange adventure to keep for my own personal recollection.

"Yes?"

I noticed then, as I glanced over at him, that he'd just exited from the shower, his shirt off and a towel draped around his shoulders. And while that was…ahem, well, all well and good, there was one thing I found a bit off about the image.

Namely, the fiddle clutched in his right hand.

"I um…wanted to thank you. You know, for helping out?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "So if you er…" He held up the fiddle feebly. "Have any requests?"

I blinked, then with a softening glance, I patted the bed beside me. "It's been, well, it a rather busy day if I do say so."

America laughed at that, sitting down where I'd indicated. "Just a bit of adventure, that's all."

"Shall we cap it off with a nice quiet song then? One of those songs with a sweet melody that warms the heart, and all that rubbish?"

He shot me a sly look. "Are you wanting me to play you a love song?"

I flushed. "I didn't say…"

"I'm not sure I know anything good, um…" He paused, sticking his tongue out in thought.

"Do you know 'Lavender Blue'?"

I'm not quite sure what compelled me to request it, but I felt like perhaps it was time I gave back to America a bit of what he'd given to me. If only he knew the tune…

His brows furrowed in thought, and he picked up his bow, tuning the fiddle before he sat poised and ready to play. "I think I know the melody, but not the lyrics…"

"Just play," I said softly.

Shifting a bit closer, he struck up the soft sweeping tune. I allowed him to play a full verse, watching him in the dim moonlit room. Bare-chested, and wearing nothing more than his boxers and the towel around his shoulders, he still managed to make his fiddle work sound like an art even in his dressed-down state. It was gorgeous.

I sat up, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before I rested my head against his shoulder and began to quietly sing the words.

_"Lavender's green, dilly, dilly, Lavender's blue,  
If you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you.  
Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?  
Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so."_

As I finished that verse, America silently sat aside his fiddle and bow. I was about to ask him why he'd stopped playing, but that question died on my lips as he turned to capture them in a fierce kiss. _Well_, that question would just have to wait.

And as his hands crept up my back, I decided that at the moment, I was much more interested in returning his attentions than figuring out the mystery behind why he'd stopped playing anyway. Considering all the clues he was currently giving me, I did have a damn good hunch, after all.

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
